I think of the whiteness of snow br on a postcard from an immigrant aunt. br How sweet, how pure br and unreal like props br in a high-school play. br The closest I have seen of it is br crushed ice on halo-halo. br Why do I end up speaking br of white things? br I feel blond - br bleached and painted over. br But this is how I speak: br misted over with a foreign flavor br but in essence a native blend br of brown and yellow. br I think of how you must have br shivered in the European snow, br words warm in your heart. br I wonder if you dreamt br in Spanish. br Perhaps we dreamt br the same dream, br our incandescent souls br glowing beneath br the translucent veils br of tongues-to-suit-our-needs. br We were born in a land br of two seasons, not four, br unused to and awed by br words like: br autumn, winter, spring. br I think of snow and br how it melts into a br gray-tinged slush, br how these words of ours br will melt with the heat br of what we really mean. br But I think we wear br our costumes well. br If it is cold br we have to put br our coats on br but it will always be br with our skins br that we feel.